Just Josh
by GatorGrrrl
Summary: A series of vignettes told from Josh's POV, based on prompts from the Livejournal community, Theatrical Muse. Mild slash in some cases.
1. Just Josh 1

**Title:** Just Josh  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** K to T (G to R)  
**Warnings:** implied to mild slash, angst, bad words  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from _Drake & Josh._ If I did, the show would have to be on Showtime or HBO.

**Author's Note 1: **I am the "voice" of Josh Nichols on the Livejournal community, Theatrical Muse. Each week, the community moderators offer up a new prompt (in **bold**) that the members, writing in the voice of their character, have to write a short ficlet for. The ficlets I have written so far are below. I'll add more as they become available, probably 4 or 5 at a time. Enjoy!

**Author's Note 2:** Three of the five ficlets below are slash (fairly mild for the most part). When I opened a new Word document each time, it wasn't my intention to write slash; it just came out that way. I tend to write these in a "stream of consciousness" manner, typing the first thing that comes to mind when I read the prompt, and then going from there. Apparently, my mind has been in a slashy place lately.

* * *

**Name three things that you're looking forward to in the near future and why.**

Let's see. Just three? Would you like those in alphabetical order or in order of importance, 'cause I can do either.

Well, I suppose the most immediate thing I'm looking forward to is getting out of these wet clothes. It seems Drake conveniently forgot, once again, that we share a car. Which means, of course, that we share a ride to and from school. Now, this is not a new situation, but Drake has the thoughtfulness of a quilt. No, scratch that. A quilt is more thoughtful. Because _its_ job is to simply provide warmth. It just lies there waiting for the opportunity to provide comfort to those who need it. Unlike my brother, who… Never mind. So, yeah, I'm gonna get out of these wet clothes and slip into my nice, warm jammies and wrap myself up in the quilt my grammy gave me when I was eight years old. 'Cause there's nothing better than plotting revenge against your stepbrother while wrapped in a comfy quilt.

The second thing? That's easy – finishing the last puzzle in my _Insanely Hard Sudoku_ book. In ink. I've been working on this book for six months. _Six months!_ And I've only had to use white out a couple – twenty-seven – times. He Who Shall Remain Nameless thinks I'm a dork, thinks I'm wasting my time, thinks I'm lowering my cool factor exponentially (that's my word, by the way) by pulling it out in public and working on it in front of everyone. But he should know by now that my cool factor is on life support, anyway, so a few number puzzles aren't really going to hurt anything. And anyway, I think it _is _cool to finish things you start. It's not dorkiness, it's diligence. I've set a goal for myself and I'm sticking to it. And when I finally finish it and emerge victorious, he's gonna…he's gonna…he's gonna still think I'm a dork.

But most of all? Well, most of all I can't wait to see the look on my brother's face when he sees what I have in store for him. Of course, I haven't thought of it yet. But it's gonna be good. It's gonna be great. It's gonna be the stuff of legend. It's gonna be right up there with turning his hands and feet green or filling the car with squirrels or –

"Hey Josh before you get mad let me explain I didn't mean to leave you at school I swear but there was this girl this really hot girl who asked me to take her to the mall and I couldn't refuse 'cause dude she was really really hot but then I felt bad and while I was there I bought you this to say that I'm really sorry and I hope you can forgive me."

Drake. He says this all in one breath as he bursts through our bedroom door in a frenzy of words and hair and wildly frantic hand movements. He's holding a bag and all of a sudden the thing I'm looking forward to the most is tasting whatever's inside. 'Cause, yeah, Drake knows me better than anyone and when pastries are involved, I just can't stay mad at him. And he knows it, too.

* * *

**A friend asks you to recommend a book: which book would you choose and why?**

_The Giving Tree _by Shel Silverstein. Read it. Why? Because it'll change your life. It did mine.

I don't remember a lot about my mother; she died when I was really young. Her name was Margaret but Dad says she hated it, that she always went by her middle name, Abigail, instead. She had dark brown hair and blue eyes and a beauty mark on her left cheek.

Sometimes I think I dream about her. I'm never really sure, though, because the dream disperses like so much dandelion fluff seconds after I wake up. But I'm always left with a warm feeling of familiarity and a dull ache in my chest after the dreams.

I remember her laugh the most – the way it always seemed to brighten the room. How it was contagious and spread from person to person faster than a virus. Sometimes I'll hear a woman laugh and it'll sound so familiar, it makes my breath catch in my throat. But it's never her; I know that. It'll never be her.

And I'm okay with that. Really. I've got a mom whom I love and who loves me.

Dad says my mother loved to read, that she used to read to me constantly, even before I was born. He swears that's why I'm "such an intelligent boy" as he puts it. And I have one vivid memory that sneaks up on me sometimes out of nowhere, when things are really quiet. I'm sitting on her lap, my head tucked beneath her chin. Her arms are around my stomach and she's holding a book open on my lap and I'm helping her turn the pages. I can feel her voice vibrating against my head and if I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough, I can actually hear the words as she reads.

"_Once there was a tree...and she loved a little boy."_

I used to imagine (and still sometimes do) that the tree was my mother and I was that little boy. That she gave me everything she could until she couldn't give any more. Because she loved me.

I still have my mother's copy of _The Giving Tree_. The one she held in her hands and read to me from. It's worn now – the cover's torn and the pages are coming loose from the binding, but I still take it out sometimes and read it, even though I have it memorized. It's something of hers I can hold on to, something tangible that she loved that I love, too. It was hers when she was a child and inside the front cover, written in neat, child-like handwriting, is the name "Margaret Abigail Simmons."

And tucked inside the back cover is a photograph. In it, she's smiling so widely I imagine her laughing. She's holding my hand.

And we're standing next to an apple tree.

* * *

**3am.**

The alarm clock is mocking me. If it could laugh, it would. In fact, I can almost hear its little electronic snickers as we speak.

It's three o'clock in the morning. In three hours I have to get up and face The Beast: my Calculus mid-term. I've studied so much, my mind is swimming with integrals and functions and derivatives. It's all I think about. The letters in my breakfast cereal seem to arrange themselves into formulas. When Mom asked me how many scoops of ice cream I wanted, I answered, "3 to the _n_th power".

I think I'm losing my mind.

What I need to do is sleep. I tried counting sheep, but numbers? Really not conducive to sleep right now. I tried drinking warm milk, but warm soy milk? _Ick. _I tried listening to soothing music on my iBot, but I kept trying to count the number of beats and that just meant more numbers. And like I said – numbers? Really bad right now.

There's one surefire, tried-and-true way I know to ease tension. But I really don't want to do it. Okay, it's not that I don't _want_ to do it. I just don't want to do it _right now._ I mean, not _here._ In my bed. With Drake sleeping just a few feet away.

I could get up and go to the bathroom, I guess. Take care of it quickly in the light blue glow of the nightlight. But I just finally got comfortable, you know? The sheets are just the perfect degree of warm and the pillow is fluffed just right and if I move now, I might never get it back. And then I'll never get to sleep.

I can hear Drake snoring lightly from his side of the room and I look over at him. His silhouette is framed against the wall behind him, a dark, misshapen lump of pure blissful slumber and I'm suddenly so envious I could scream. Or cry. Or both.

Fine. I give up. I'll do it. Right here, right now. Just a few practiced flicks of the wrist and the welcome arms of sleep will wrap around me, all snug and warm for the next three hours. Okay, two hours and fifty-five minutes, now that I look at the clock. Well, more like two hours and fifty minutes, if all goes as planned.

_Stop. Stop calculating._

I take a deep breath and one last, quick look at my brother to make sure he's still sleeping. I see him roll over onto his left side, dragging his blanket with him, and hear him sigh contentedly into his pillow.

Damn him. But at least he's facing away from me. This'll be easier if I know that.

Taking another deep breath, I stare resolutely up at the ceiling and then close my eyes. Alright. Think. I need something hot. Something sexy. Wait, no. Not some_thing._ Some_one._

Mindy. Yeah, Mindy.

I can feel my mouth curve into an easy smile as I conjure my girlfriend's face in my mind. _Her radiant smile. _My fingers find the end of the drawstring on my pajama pants and tug, pulling the knot loose. _Her light brown hair that smells like lavender and shines in the sunlight. _I snake my fingers beneath the soft elastic waistband of my boxers, the scratchy hair rough against my fingertips. _Her soft lips that always taste like cherry lip gloss. _I run my fingers against the length of my penis; it's already getting stiff. _Her fingers snaking through the hair on the back of my neck._ I wrap my hand around myself, feeling the heat against my palm, my breath catching in my throat. _Her voice whispering in my ear, "the logarithm of the product of two numbers is the sum of the logarithms of those numbers."_ I run my thumb over the… Wait, what? No. No no no.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to go back. Her hands. Think about her hands. The way they brush down your arms when you kiss. They way her palm feels soft and warm against yours when you're walking. The way they've built a better science fair project than you every year since sixth grade.

_No!_ I can feel my fledgling hard-on dwindling fast. Think, dammit. Hands. Lips. Smile. Hair. Lavender shampoo. Cherry lip gloss. _"The derivative is a measurement of how a function changes when the values of its inputs change."_

"_Shut up, Creature."_ Drake's voice. _"Don't listen to her, Josh. Just relax. You can do this."_ I can see his face, clear as day, in my mind. Mindy's face is gone. _"Just stop thinking."_

What? What the hell is Drake doing here?

"_Josh."_

Jesus God, I'm hard again. Really hard. Just like that. Just from the sound of his voice saying my name. And I'm not even gonna think about what that means because, yeah, I _need_ this.

"_Just relax, dude."_

I move my hand rhythmically up and down, up and down. It feels so good, I can feel my eyes roll back behind my eyelids. My heart starts to thud against my ribs.

"_That's right. Just like that."_

Warmth begins to pool deep inside my belly, starts to spread outward until I can feel it infuse my fingers, my toes, the tips of my ears. I press my head into the pillow and crane my neck, gritting my teeth.

"_You're almost there, Josh. Just a little bit more."_

My wrist is starting to feel tight, my palm slick. I tighten my grip, giving myself a squeeze, and pretend they're _his_ fingers wrapped around me. And then I come, fast and hard, feeling the hot, sticky wetness soak into my t-shirt. I have to bite my bottom lip painfully to keep from crying out.

"_See? I told you. Just stop thinking. Don't you feel better now?"_

"Yeah," I whisper between breaths.

He's looking at me and he's smiling. He's smiling that smile that says, "I love it when I'm right." And I feel myself smile back.

His voice and his face disappear from my mind after a few seconds and I feel my eyelids begin to droop. Sleep at last. I peel my t-shirt off and toss it to the floor next to the bed, taking a look at the clock out of habit before rolling over into my comfy position.

3:12am.

* * *

**If you could get anyone drunk, who would it be and what would you do?**

Sometimes it's tiring always being the responsible one. The one who always thinks before he acts. The one who always knows right from wrong even when he ends up – usually through a little arm-twisting – doing the wrong thing.

For once, I'd like to do something irresponsible. All on my own. Something where I wouldn't have to think too much or even think at all. Where the sharp edges of the world would soften a bit and where I could do something frivolous without worrying about the consequences.

Like get drunk. It would be so easy, really. Just go downstairs and open the heavy oak cabinet with the cut glass doors where Mom and Dad store all the liquor. They really only have it for special occasions, like when Dad's boss comes over for dinner or when Mom's book club meets once a month to discuss the latest Sandra Brown or Nora Roberts offering.

I'd start with the sherry. I heard Dad say it's sweet. Or maybe brandy. Mom got a some of that stuff where the pear's inside the bottle as a gift once. I like pears. It'd be like drinking fruit juice, right? Really strong fruit juice.

I wonder what kind of drunk I'd be. Would I get all maudlin and cry? Would I think everything was funny? Would I get sick and throw up all over the place? I hope not. Vomit is gross enough when you're sober. It's gotta be worse when you're drunk. I'm already uncoordinated, so that would just be like every other day, only magnified.

I like to think I'd be a happy drunk. You know, one of those people who starts to think everyone's their friend. The guy who's touchy-feely, hugging everyone and saying, "I love you, man." The kind of guy everyone else hates because he just won't shut up or stop smiling like he's just had a lobotomy.

Yeah, that's the kind of drunk I'd be. I'd be the happy guy who sings cheesy power ballads off-tune at the top of his lungs while trying to form a conga line and do the limbo. And I wouldn't think about how badly my head's gonna hurt in the morning or how disappointed Mom's gonna be or how much Drake is gonna make fun of me or how much Megan's gonna torture me when I'm hungover.

I wouldn't think about my GPA or my college applications or the fact that I have a recurring rash. I wouldn't think about the rightness and wrongness of things or how the world is spinning too fast or how the thought of leaving for college in less than four months scares me out of my mind.

I wouldn't think about how I'm pretty sure I'm in love with my stepbrother.

And then I'd probably throw up.

* * *

**Black and white.**

Know why I like Chemistry so much? Because it's concrete. It's absolute. If you mix Chemical A with Chemical B, you _always_ get Chemical C. You don't sometimes get Chemical C and sometimes get Chemical Q. Chemistry is black and white.

Life, on the other hand, is a palette of maddeningly different colors. Red. Blue. Purple. Green. Irritatingly similar, yet so vastly different, shades of gray. That weird color the cottage cheese turns after it's been in the back of the fridge for six months.

If life were like Chemistry, it would be so easy to predict. And in some cases, there _are_ absolute truths. For instance, if I touch Megan's stuff without her permission, there will, without a doubt, be consequences. Very, very bad and possibly physically altering consequences. This is a black and white, absolute truth and has been proven and substantiated by empirical evidence so many times, it should be made into a Law of Nature.

Where the other colors creep in is where all uncertainty lies – with my stepbrother, Drake. He doesn't follow the rules. In fact, there are only two absolutely black and white things when it comes to Drake – one, he's always cool, and two, he's aware he's always cool.

But after that, the part of the world, the part of _my_ world where Drake resides is a mind-numbing array of swirling colors. Take, for instance, the other day. We're sitting on the couch in our room watching reruns of _Susannah Louisiana_, goofing on how bad an actor the dad is, when all of a sudden Drake turns to me and says, "Hey, Josh. Wanna wrestle?" Now that wasn't so unusual in and of itself since Drake gets bored easily and often feels the need to entertain himself in some physical manner. He also is secretly self-conscious about his size and wants to prove he can take on someone bigger than him.

That part was black and white, you see. Predictable and comfortable. It was what happened next that brought on the laser light show of psychedelic colors. There we were, locked in some pretzel-like move we learned by watching WWE late at night, when all of a sudden Drake whispered, "I think about you when I jerk off." So of course, I lost all concentration, which allowed Drake to gain the upper hand and pin me to the floor beneath him, his knees digging into my ribs. He then grinned down at me like a doofus and held me there for what I felt was longer than necessary before getting up and settling back into the couch cushions like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just said what he did.

That is _not_ black and white. That is so far from black and white it's a prism. Or what comes out of a prism, anyway. You know what I mean.

* * *

_Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you._


	2. Just Josh 2

**Title:** Just Josh  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** K to T (G to R)  
**Warnings:** implied to mild slash, angst, bad words  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from _Drake & Josh._ If I did, the show would have to be on Showtime or HBO.

**Author's Note: **I am the "voice" of Josh Nichols on the Livejournal community, Theatrical Muse. Each week, the community moderators offer up a new prompt (in **bold**) that the members, writing in the voice of their character, have to write a short ficlet for. I have a blast writing them; I hope you enjoy reading them.

* * *

**"Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live."**

Mom's looking at me like she's gonna burst into tears at any second and Dad's grin is so wide it makes _my_ face hurt. Megan's wearing her characteristic smug smirk – the one that says, "You're still a boob. You're just a boob who's going to college." Somehow, though, that's reassuring. It means not _everything_ has changed, only _almost_ everything.

The back of Mom's SUV is stuffed to the brim with pieces of my life – clothes and books and my special Fudgy Boos pan. It all fits neatly into several cardboard boxes and looking at it now, it seems almost pathetic. My life – eighteen years – squeezed into the back of a Chevy Suburban.

"Ready, son?" Dad asks and I can hear his voice crack just a little bit on the word 'ready'.

I turn my eyes from the neatly labeled boxes and meet his across the pavement. He's standing next to the driver's door, his keys dangling loosely from his fingers. His goofy grin has shrunk into something less forced and I feel my own lips curve into a tentative smile.

"Yeah," I finally say, but I can't help but shift my gaze to the front door. It's still standing empty.

"Josh," I hear my dad say softly. "He'll come around. This is hard for him, you know."

I nod, but my throat's too constricted to say anything and when I look once again at Dad, he's standing right next to me. We stare at each other for several long seconds. He opens his mouth to say something I'm sure is full of good intentions, but I don't really want to hear it right now and cut him off instead, saying quickly, "Let's go. I want to get there early."

Dad hands me the keys and even though I've been driving for a while now, the gesture feels eerily like a rite of passage. Like from this point on, there's no going back. Childhood is officially over.

Mom hugs me too hard and finally pulls away, pressing her hand to my cheek and saying, "Drive safely. Call me when you get there."

Megan hugs me, too, and I can't resist the urge to reach over my shoulder and pat my back in search of something taped there. I really am going to miss her, I realize with some surprise. "See ya, Megs," I say, smiling.

"Bye, boob." Her voice sounds unnaturally subdued and if I didn't know any better, I'd think she was about to cry.

I walk to the door, slide my fingers through the handle, and pull it open. I stop with one foot resting on the floorboard and look at Mom. "Do me a favor," I say, swallowing past the growing lump in my throat.

"Of course," she says and I know she already knows what I'm going to say.

"Tell him I said goodbye."

I can see her eyes fill as she runs her hand through Megan's long black hair. "I will," she whispers.

My eyes flit involuntarily to the window above the garage. The curtains are drawn and still and I feel my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.

"Son, we should go if we want to beat the traffic."

Dad's voice draws me back to the present and I nod. "Yeah," I say. "Okay." Then I duck inside the SUV and stare through the windshield at Mom and Megan. "Wish me luck," I say as I shut the door with a note of finality and secure my seatbelt around me.

I will myself not to look at the window again as I back carefully down the driveway, instead focusing my attention on smiling with a convincing note of happiness as I wave goodbye to life as I have known it for the last four years.

We ride in silence for several blocks before the sound of the internal carphone ringing nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Dad and I exchange a look before he reaches up and presses the button on the bottom edge of the rearview mirror to answer the call.

"Hello?"

There's silence on the other end for several seconds, then, "Hey."

Drake. The sound of his voice makes my fingers convulse around the steering wheel and it takes everything I have to concentrate on driving. There's a convenience store coming up on the next corner and I hear Dad whisper, "Pull in there, son. I want to get some coffee."

I don't say anything, just do as requested, and I still haven't uttered a word to either of them when I put the SUV into park in front of the store. Dad gets out and disappears inside the store, leaving me alone.

Except I'm not alone. Not really.

"Josh? You still there?" Drake's voice sounds so unsure and if this was any other day, I'd rag on him about it. But this isn't any other day.

"Where were you?" I blurt out suddenly and feel indignation begin to warm my cheeks.

"I…" Drake says. "I'm sorry."

"You're my brother, man. You were supposed to see me off." I don't want to be angry, but I can't seem to help it.

The SUV fills with an oppressive silence. "I couldn't," he finally says and unless it's static, I swear I hear a sniffle.

"Drake," I say, my anger draining away as quickly as it rose. "It's not like I'm –"

"I'll miss you," he says, cutting me off.

I close my eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Those are the words I've been waiting to hear since I got my acceptance letter in the mail a month ago.

"Josh?"

I open my eyes and look in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me are mine, but for a moment I can almost see Drake's – dark and bright and full of life. "Yeah. I'm here."

"I…" he says and I can hear him sigh. "I'm not gonna say goodbye, okay?"

I bite the inside of my lip to keep the tears in check, but a couple escape anyway and I wipe roughly at them. I don't know what to say or if I could even speak if I wanted to.

"Did you hear me, Josh?" Drake says. "This isn't goodbye. You're just going away for a while on a really long, boring trip with lots of books and studying and other equally horrifying things."

I can't help but laugh at that and it makes me feel better. "Don't forget exams and papers and lab reports."

"Please," Drake says. "I just had breakfast."

I'm smiling, but it fades in the ensuing silence. I can hear him breathing through the line. "I'll miss you, too," I finally say.

"You better."

We hang up a few moments later with a casual exchange of _See ya_'s and I'm overcome by a strange mixture of sadness and exhilaration.

I barely notice when Dad opens the passenger door and climbs back in and it isn't until I hear him ask, "Everything okay?" that I turn to look at him.

"Yeah," I answer and feel myself smile. "Everything's great."

It's not until we're waiting in the left-hand turn lane two blocks up that I notice he doesn't have any coffee.

* * *

**Is there a situation where it's appropriate to be unkind?**

I always try to be a nice guy. I believe in that old saying, "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." But sometimes…sometimes I lose control of myself and say or do something to intentionally hurt someone. Most of the time I feel bad about it later. But every now and then, I actually feel like I've done the right thing.

Yesterday was one of those times.

I was at work, standing behind the concessions counter helping customers, when I overheard a conversation between a man and woman a few feet off to my left. I wasn't eavesdropping exactly; the conversation was getting pretty loud and other people were listening, too, I could tell.

It turns out, the conversation was pretty one-sided and the man's voice was the only one to be heard. I tried to ignore them, right? Not my business, right? But it was getting more and more difficult to concentrate. Then I heard something that made me stop in the middle of handing some kid his box of Jelly Fruits and turn my attention to the couple.

Very clearly, the man said, "This wouldn't have happened if you weren't so fucking stupid."

The look of mortification on the woman's face nearly made my heart break. She looked as though she just wanted to disintegrate right then and there. I got angry.

Excusing myself from the counter, I walked over to them and said as politely as I could manage, "Excuse me, is there some sort of problem here?"

The man turned to me, his dark eyes shooting daggers, and said, "Fuck off, kid."

I didn't appreciate that, but still, I kept my cool. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir," I said slowly.

The man laughed. "You can't throw me out. I'm a paying customer," he said, holding up two movie tickets.

"I'll gladly give you a refund," I said.

The man looked at me like he wanted to rip my head off, but I had nearly six inches on him and he didn't make a move. "Fine," he said, grabbing the woman's arm. "Let's go." Then he started dragging her towards the exit.

She stopped short, struggling against his grasp. "Let go of me," she hissed.

"Let's _go_," the man growled.

The woman managed to tear her arm from the man's grasp and I quickly moved in front of her, shielding her from him. "Please leave," I said through clenched teeth. My heart thudded inside my chest and by now a crowd had formed around us.

"Make me," he said, sounding just like Biff from the _Back to the Future_ movies. I would've laughed, too, if I hadn't seen his hands clench into fists.

Helen had gone out on an errand and had left me in charge, so it was up to me to resolve the situation. So I called out to Gavin, "Hey, Gavin. Call the police." I heard his monotone reply in the background.

The man's face fell at that, but he still stood his ground. He moved his eyes from me to the woman behind me. "Stupid bitch," he growled. "This is all your fault."

I took a step back so I was standing next to the woman. She had pretty auburn hair and huge hazel eyes. I kept my eye on the man as I asked her, "Ma'am, is this man your husband?" I'm not sure why I asked, except I was afraid she'd end up alone with him later where I couldn't intervene.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Blind date."

That made me unbelievably happy. I turned to the man – and this, to me, was the unkind part – and said, "Sir, the only stupid thing she did was agree to go out with you." Then I gave him my most professional smile and waited for him to react.

He spluttered for a couple seconds, then stomped out of the lobby.

So yeah, sometimes there is a situation where it's appropriate to be unkind.

I still feel pretty good about that one.

* * *

**Surprise! Your mother is at the door -- and at a most inopportune moment! Now what?!**

The other day, I was home alone and knew I would be for hours. So what did I do? That's right, I decided to walk around the house naked. (I don't know why, really, except that I'd never done it before and I guess I just wanted to know what it was like. By the way, it felt pretty good. At least at first.)

So there I was, strolling through the family abode in my birthday suit, enjoying the freedom of it all, if you know what I mean. I sat on the couch naked. I put in a load of whites naked. I sat at the dining room table and did my homework naked. I even walked into the kitchen naked and made myself a snack. (And let me tell you, standing in front of the open refrigerator naked? Ten kinds of awesome. Maybe even twelve.) Of course, that's when everything went wrong.

I had just finished spreading strawberry jam on my sandwich and was returning the jar to the fridge when I heard a muffled gasp behind me. Now, by this time, I was so used to being naked that I totally forgot I was and so when I turned around to see where the noise was coming from, I wasn't initially shocked to see Mom standing in the kitchen doorway. Crowded behind her were Dad, Megan, and Drake.

"Hey," I said casually.

As fate would have it (and we all know just how kind Fate has been to me), they all returned home at that precise moment and were gawking at me with wide, unblinking eyes. I was starting to get self-conscious. I hate it when people stare at me, you see. It makes me all twitchy. So, with trepidation, I asked, "Is there something on my face?"

Megan stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand and Drake shook his head. "Not exactly, dude," he said.

Then it hit me. Much, much too late, of course. I started to feel it: the cold air. It was causing goosebumps to break out in all the wrong places. My face flushed hot; I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples. I did the only thing instinct told me to do: I backed up into the fridge as far as I could and pulled the door in front of me.

The rest of what happened is merged into one excruciating moment that's forever emblazoned on my memory. Dad said my name. My whole name. In his disappointed voice he saves for very special occasions. Mom came towards me with a handful of dish towels: white with dark green trim. Megan started laughing and muttered something that sounded like, "This is totally going in my blog."

And Drake? Well, Drake simply grabbed my sandwich off the counter and took a bite, saying through a mouthful, "We are so gonna have to get a new refrigerator."

* * *

_Please review. Thank you._


	3. Just Josh 3

**Title:** Just Josh  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** K to T (G to R)  
**Warnings:** implied to mild slash, angst, bad words  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from _Drake & Josh._ If I did, the show would have to be on Showtime or HBO.

**Author's Note: **I decided to go ahead a post this prompt on its own because it's long enough to be a stand-alone story. It's nearly as long as the last three prompts combined. Mild slash warning. Again, prompt in **bold**. Enjoy.

* * *

**Utopia.**

Stupid English assignment. I can almost understand now why Drake hates Mrs. Hayfer so much. Except he doesn't really hate her. He hates the fact he can't win her over with his charm, can't smooth her rough edges with his charisma like he can with everyone else. Plus he's afraid of her, although he'd never admit it.

See? I'm doing it again. Drifting off. I can't seem to stay focused, which is weird because I can usually tune out everything when I'm doing my homework. The garage could explode and unless I was actually in it at the time, I don't think I would notice.

But this assignment has me stumped. It seemed easy enough when Mrs. Hayfer assigned it. She went around the room with a plastic pail full of little slips of paper and had each one of us pick one. Then we had to write a one page essay on whatever was written on the paper – its meaning, what it means to _us_, whatever.

My word? _Hypocrisy._ Seems easy enough, right? Wrong.

Usually, I'm good at this kind of stuff. Give me a topic and I can expound on it at length without breaking a sweat. I once wrote a six-page report on the British general Charles Cornwallis in less than two hours. I got an A on that one, too.

But this? For some reason, I'm finding it impossible.

I mean, it's just a word. And not a very complicated one at that. According to the American Heritage Dictionary, it means, "the practice of professing beliefs, feelings, or virtues that one does not hold or possess; insincerity." Surely there's something I can write about this word that will take up _one page_.One measly page.

_Thump._ Something bounces off the back of my head. Turning to look over my shoulder, I see Drake staring back at me from his bed, a half-grin on his face. "What?" I ask.

"Are you done yet?" he asks.

I hold up my glaringly empty notebook and wave it at him. "Does it _look_ like I'm done?"

"Geez, Josh. What's taking you so long? I've been done for, like, an hour already."

"Good for you." I turn back to my paper, poising my pen expectantly over the first blank line.

"Jo-osh," Drake says behind me in that special way he has of stretching one syllable into two. I think it's the songwriting thing. You know, making one word fit where it otherwise wouldn't. He does it a lot.

"Wha-at?" I ask, mimicking his rhythm but not looking at him.

"I'm bored."

"Do your algebra homework, then," I say.

"Ew."

"Then read a book."

"Ew-er."

I close my eyes and take a soothing breath. "Drake," I say calmly. "I'm busy, okay? Gimme a break here."

There's a pause, then, "Fine." He sounds defeated and while most of the time this would make me drop everything, I refuse to do so now. I'm not going to let this assignment get the better of me, dammit.

"_The word 'hypocrisy' means…"_ I begin to write, feeling more confident now that I've finally written something. But when I finish writing the definition, I go blank again. Now what?

"Josh," Drake says, his restlessness clear in his voice, "come _on._"

"Drake, I need to get this done." I still don't look at him. I don't want to see those big brown puppy dog eyes that I know from experience are the windows into a devious mind. Looking directly at them is like staring at the sun.

"Dude," he says. "This was, like, the easiest assignment I've ever had. Mrs. Hayfer'll probably give me an F anyway, but whatever." Reluctantly, I turn in my seat to look at him over the back of the couch. He smiles, then tilts his head in that way that tells me he knows exactly what's going on inside my head. "Stop thinking about it so much, man. Just write whatever comes to mind."

"That's easy for you to say," I tell him. "You probably had an easy word. Like 'cheese' or 'guitar'. Something concrete. Something obvious you can picture in your mind and write about. My word's a little more abstract, okay? It's just not something I can conjure up in my head that easily. I mean –"

"Utopia," Drake says.

"Huh?"

Drake looks at me evenly. "Utopia," he repeats. "That was my word."

I snort sarcastically. "Utopia, huh? You do realize that's not a swear word, right?" I say before I can stop myself.

His face falls. It's very slight, but I can see it.

"Whatever, man," he finally says and I can hear the hurt in his voice and watch in silence as he lithely descends from the loft and grabs his jacket off the back of the desk chair. Then he leaves the room without even looking at me.

Dammit.

I spend another five minutes staring fruitlessly at the blank page in front of me before finally succumbing to my ever-growing curiosity. Tossing my pen and notebook on the coffee table, I stand up and walk over to Drake's bed. Stepping up onto the second rung of the ladder, I peer over the edge. His notebook is laying open on top of his rumpled bedspread, one page completely covered in his distinct, compact handwriting.

Hauling myself up the rest of the way, I sit along the edge of the loft and let my legs dangle towards the floor. Grabbing Drake's notebook, I begin to read.

"_Utopia. A perfect place. A place where things are exactly the way they should be. Where everything you want is within reach. A place of pure happiness. A place where you can be yourself and not have to worry about what anyone else thinks…"_

It only takes a minute to read what he's written and I can't help but smile at the way he's misspelled "awesome." But when I read the last couple lines, I stop and read them again. Then again. I stare at them for longer than it took me to read the entire essay and it's only when I hear the familiar sound of Drake's boots scuffing along the wood floor just inside the bedroom door that I look up.

He's just standing there looking at me, one hand on the doorknob, the other fumbling awkwardly with the edge of his jacket.

"I was just…" I say quickly, dropping his notebook on the bed and sliding to the floor with a dull thud.

"Spying?" he says, stepping down into the room.

"No," I reply. "I…no." I feel really stupid and guilty and like such a shit right now. The last words of his essay reverberate inside my head.

"Whatever," he says, trying to sound nonchalant. Always the cool one, my stepbrother. Nothing ever bothers him. Water off a duck's back and all that. "I forgot my wallet." He brushes past me to his dresser, where he snatches up his wallet and heads back towards the door without a second glance at me.

"I'm sorry," I say suddenly, just as he's stepping up onto the platform.

He stops just in front of the doorway and I see his shoulders slump just a little. "Drake, I –"

"I'm not as dumb as you think I am," he says, cutting me off. He turns to look at me and his dark eyes are shadowed.

"I don't…" I sputter, then sigh. "I don't think you're dumb."

He smiles then – a thin, knowing smile. "What I wrote," he says softly, nodding vaguely in the direction of his bed. "I meant it."

All I can do is nod.

He leaves again and I stare after him, watching him disappear down the stairs. I'm still staring into the empty hallway when Megan emerges from her room and catches me. "You better close your mouth before something flies in," she says with her typical air of superiority before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs.

"Sure thing, Megs," I say absently to her receding back. Because suddenly I know what I'm going to write for my essay. The words are so clear in my head that I rush to the couch and snatch up my notebook, scribbling them down quickly before I forget them.

Ten minutes later, I'm done. It's barely legible and I'll have to rewrite it, but it's finished. I took Drake's advice and just wrote what came to mind and it turned out better than anything I could've written otherwise.

I read it over. _"Hypocrisy is thinking good grades mean you're smart. It's telling your best friend he's dumb when, really, you're the dumb one. It's laughing at a bad joke when all you really want to do is roll your eyes. It's insincerity and dishonesty and disingenuousness. It's using ten-dollar words when one-dollar ones would suffice. It's pretending to be someone you're not."_

Later, Drake climbs in through the window with the practiced ease of a cat burglar and walks into the room, standing just outside the fuzzy pool of light cast by the lamp burning next to my bed.

"Hey," he says, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it over the arm of the couch.

"Hey," I say. I close the book on my lap and slide it onto the table beside me. "Where did you go?"

He shrugs carelessly then bends to pull off his right boot, tossing it on the floor a couple feet away. "Nowhere, really," he finally says as he straightens. Then he repeats the procedure with his left boot.

"It's good," I say suddenly, watching him as he peels off his t-shirt.

"What is?" he asks, walking to his dresser and placing his wallet, watch, and cell phone on top.

"Your essay," I answer.

I see his movements stop for a second before resuming with their usual fluidity. It never ceases to amaze me just how boneless he seems sometimes, how he can fill each movement of his limbs with such _grace._

"It's just a stupid essay, Josh," he says. "It doesn't mean anything." But the fact that he said just the exact opposite a couple hours before combined with the fact that he won't look at me tells me he doesn't believe that. It does mean something. Something important.

"No," I say, throwing off the covers and standing up. "Don't say that."

"Look, Josh," he says, turning towards his bed. "Let's just forget it, okay?"

He reaches for the ladder, but I cross the room in three huge steps and stand in front of him. Then, before I even realize what I'm doing, I grab his arms, pull him to me, and kiss him. The suddenness of it takes us both by surprise and the sound of my heart thundering in my ears drowns out everything else.

He places his palms flat against my chest and pushes me away and reality abruptly reasserts itself. The look on his face makes me wish I would spontaneously combust. "Drake…" I manage, unable to move. "I…I…" Say something, genius. Do something. Run away.

He stares at me in silence, a hard edge in his dark eyes that crushes the air from my lungs. "Oh God," I hear myself whisper, though I don't feel the words leave my throat. I finally find the strength to back away a step.

But then something unexpected happens. He grabs me, his long fingers circling my left wrist tightly. "Wait," he whispers, stepping into the space I just vacated.

He's so close I can feel each of his breaths as it exits through his slightly-parted lips. My shadow falls partly across him and only the left side of his face is bathed in dim orange light. "Don't you see?" he asks.

"W-What?" I can barely breathe.

He smiles then and suddenly I realize it wasn't anger I saw in his eyes a moment ago, but something else entirely.

"This," he says, leaning in, brushing his lips against mine. A ghost of a touch. "This is utopia."

* * *

_Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you._


	4. Just Josh 4

**Title:** Just Josh  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** K to T (G to R)  
**Warnings:** implied to mild slash, angst, bad words  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from Drake & Josh. If I did, the show would have to be on Showtime or HBO.

**Author's Note:** I've finally acquired enough prompts for another post. Enjoy!

* * *

**Show us where you live.**

One word of advice: never share a dorm room with two of your friends. For one thing, there's a good chance you won't want them as friends anymore. And secondly, all the triples? In the basement. Probably because they know just how disgusting they can get.

I never would have guessed it in a million years, but Craig Ramirez and Eric Blonnowitz are slobs. With a capital 'S' and a capital 'LOBS.' They always seemed like they were up on the latest in personal hygiene. I mean, in high school their khakis were always pressed and their polo shirts were always tucked in neatly. Their hair was combed and their teeth were brushed and when we were at one or the other's house to study, their rooms were always spotless.

Turns out, their _mothers_ cleaned their rooms, washed their clothes, and practically bathed them in the kitchen sink until they left for college.

Which brings me back to the stinking hole I get to call home for the next two semesters. Dirty clothes cover the floor except for the path I've cleared to my little corner. Cereal bowls with layers of congealed milk litter every surface. And I'm not sure, but I think there's something living under the pile of old school newspapers by the door 'cause I can hear a rustling at night.

And don't even get me started on the smell. I'd take Drake's old boots next to my pillow any day.

Oh, and the bickering? You'd think those two are married. The first day we moved in they started arguing about who was going to get the top bunk. So they compromised by agreeing to alternate. Not that it matters, anyway. They always end up together in the same bed by morning, which gives an entirely new and slightly disturbing meaning to the whole "I want to be on top. No, I want to be on top" argument.

I've put in a request to Housing for a transfer, but there's a waiting list. A _really long _waiting list. I made sure to tell them that even the un-air-conditioned dorms would be fine. Potentially drowning in my own sweat has got to be better than this.

* * *

**What does respect mean to you?**

Well, I'll tell you what it _doesn't _mean. It _doesn't _mean picking up the extension while I'm talking on the phone to Mindy and saying that the doctor's office called to confirm my appointment for tomorrow about the rash on my butt (and it's on my _back_, thank you very much).

It _doesn't _mean tricking me into running around the block so that you can take the car instead.

It _doesn't_ mean eating the last piece of strudel or short-sheeting my bed or writing on the back of my autographed picture of Frankie Muniz.

It _doesn't_ mean dissing Oprah or laughing when I get "pantsed" by Megan or providing me with a fake ID so unbelievable that I got handcuffed and almost had to kidnap the governor.

It _doesn't_ mean telling Nancy Wasserman in ninth grade that I eat my own boogers or Libby Marcus in tenth that I still wet the bed.

And it _definitely_ doesn't mean constantly making fun of my slightly oversized head.

Besides, I can't help that; it's genetic. Just look at Dad.

* * *

**It's your birthday! If anything were possible, what would be your perfect way to celebrate?**

"Happy birthday, man," Drake says to me on the first of the month.

"It's not my birthday," I say.

He shrugs. "Oh," he says. "Well, maybe tomorrow." And he walks out the bedroom door.

The next day, we're sitting in the kitchen eating our cereal before school, when Drake looks at me and says around a mouthful of Choco Puffs, "Happy birthday."

I just look at him. "It's still not my birthday," I tell him.

"Really?" he says. "Huh." Then he gets up and drops his bowl in the sink.

"Goodnight, Josh," Drake says on the night of the third. "And happy birthday."

"Nope," I say and watch him climb up to his bed and burrow beneath his blankets.

The pattern continues and I decide I'm not going to let it bother me. I'm not going to think about the fact that my stepbrother and best friend doesn't know my birth date and that he's too lazy to sneak a peek at my driver's license to find out. So every day he tells me happy birthday and every day I tell him it's not my birthday and eventually, it _will_ be my birthday and he'll finally be right.

By the way, my birthday is on the twenty-seventh.

The morning of my birthday, I wake up to find Drake up already, which is unusual since it's Saturday morning and barely eight o'clock. Smiling to myself, thinking he's finally discovered it's my birthday and is, at this moment, downstairs trying to make me some inedible concoction for breakfast, I throw off the covers and get up. Shuffling downstairs, I find Mom and Dad in the kitchen.

No Drake.

Mom looks up from mixing something in a stainless steel bowl and smiles. "Happy birthday, honey," she says cheerfully.

"Happy birthday, son," Dad says from the breakfast table.

"Thanks," I say, looking into the living room. Drake's not there, either.

"Where's Drake?" I ask, turning back to Mom.

"Oh, he left about forty-five minutes ago," she says. "Something about meeting the guys at Mission Beach."

I feel my heart drop, but try my best not to show it. "Right."

"He didn't invite you?" Dad asks, then gets a sheepish expression on his face when he realizes what an obviously dumb question that is.

I shrug. "I've got plans," I say lamely. "With Mindy."

I can see they don't really believe me, but Mom smiles and says, "That's nice." Dad goes back to reading the paper.

Five minutes later, I'm moping over a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes when Megan walks into the kitchen and comes to stand next to me. "Happy birthday, boob," she says through a yawn.

"Thanks," I mutter, moving to stab a sausage link with my fork. She steals it off my plate before I can.

After breakfast, I go back upstairs and get dressed and then call Mindy to see if she wants to go to the mall or something.

"I'm sorry, Josh," she says. "My mom's dragging me to some Mayflower Daughters thing."

"No problem," I say and hang up.

I call Craig next, but he tells me he and his stepdad are going fishing. "You know," he says and I can almost hear his eyes roll, "for some manly bonding."

Eric tells me he's got his cousin's bar mitzvah to attend.

It saddens me that I am officially out of friends.

I go downstairs and tell everyone I'm off to the mall with Mindy and ask Dad if I can borrow his car since Drake's taken ours to Mission Beach. (Jerk.)

I spend the day by myself and it's not so bad, really. I go to the library and the art museum and the aquarium and the magic shop, where I buy myself a new collapsible top hat and a set of magic rings to replace my old ones.

I'm sitting at the outside patio of Inside-Out Burger, sipping a chocolate milkshake and watching the kids in the playground, when my phone chirps inside my pocket. Pulling it out, I see it's Drake calling and for a second I think about letting it go to voicemail. But I press SEND and press the phone to my ear.

"Having fun at Mission Beach?" The 'without me' part I keep to myself.

"Dude, you would not _believe_ how many hot girls there are here. There must be, like, a convention or something." He sounds happy. (Jerk.)

"That's great," I say.

"But that's not why I called. I forgot to tell you something," he says and I hear laughter in the background.

I perk up at that. Okay, here it comes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. "Helen called yesterday after school. She asked me to tell you she needs you to work tonight."

"What?"

"Yeah. I meant to tell you last night, but I forgot. I guess I should've left you a note." I hear a peal of feminine laughter in the background and grit my teeth against it.

"What time?" I ask, resigned.

"Six o'clock," Drake answers. Then I hear him say something muffled to someone. He's probably got his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Wait," I say. "Why didn't Helen just call me on my cell phone?"

"How should I know? Maybe you should ask her that when you get to The Premiere."

I stifle a sigh. "Fine. Thanks for the message." (Jerk.)

We're just about to hang up when Drake says, "Oh, and Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be late. You know how Helen gets." He laughs.

We hang up and I drive back home to find the house empty and a note on the dining room table that says, "Your dad and I went to dinner with the Davidsons. Megan is spending the night at Janie's. Be back around eleven. Love, Mom."

It's just as well I have to work, then. It's better than spending the night alone in an empty house on my birthday.

I climb the stairs to my room and change into my uniform.

Twenty-five minutes later, I pull into my regular spot behind the theater and walk in through the employee entrance.

"Happy birthday," Gavin says with his usual enthusiasm. "It sucks you have to work."

"Whatever," I say. "Where's Helen?" I need her to give me the schedule and work assignments list.

"Lobby," Gavin says.

"Thanks," I say and walk into the lobby.

"SURPRISE!"

The cheer is so loud, it nearly gives me a heart attack, and it takes me a second to realize it's for me.

Everyone's here – Mom, Dad, Megan, Mindy, Craig, Eric, a few of Drake's friends and ex-girlfriends to make the crowd seem bigger, and Drake, who's grinning back at me from the front of the group.

"Happy birthday, man," he says, walking up to me.

I feel myself smile. "You remembered," I say.

"Dude, after last year, I had it tattooed on my arm so I wouldn't forget," he says.

I look around. The place is decorated with balloons and streamers and several of those "Happy Birthday" banners. There's even a piñata shaped like Oprah's head and I laugh. It's incredibly tacky, but I love it.

When I look back at Drake, he's still looking at me. "What, no kiss?" he asks, nudging me.

I laugh. "Maybe later," I tell him. "If you're good."

* * *

**Freudian slip.**

_Friday, March 21_

_Mindy just broke up with me. Again. I'm pretty sure it's for good this time, if the nearly frame-splintering slamming of the door and the death-ray look she gave me right before she left are any indication._

_I'm actually starting to freak out a little now that I've had some time to think about it. I mean, what if she tells everyone? I would have to change my name and move to a foreign country. Maybe Yudonia. I could live with Yooka's family for a while. She was my sister-in-law for about five minutes; she has to take me in, right? I could bring her a goat; you know, sweeten the deal._

_And what am I going to tell Drake? Not that he's really going to care why Mindy dumped me. But he is going to ask and I certainly can't tell him the truth. The problem is, I'm a terrible liar and Drake knows it. Shit._

_Maybe I'll just whisper it to him while he's sleeping, let the truth float in the air until it evaporates. Maybe after unburdening myself, I can tell him a convincing lie. Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Tonight, when I'm sure he's asleep, when his face is half-buried between his pillows and his breathing's low and even, I'll calmly whisper, "Mindy broke up with me because I called out your name when she was giving me head."_

_What's funny is that I'm not sure which part he would think was worse: the blowjob or the calling out his name thing. But I never plan on finding out._

_P.S. – I will be burning this just as soon as I finish writing it, but I just had to get it out._

* * *

**Hair.**

I was seven years old the first time I really understood there was something wrong with my mom. It was the summer between first and second grade and I woke up one morning to the most intense quiet I could ever remember hearing. Usually, there was something to listen to – the television, the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen, my dad singing in the shower on the other side of the wall.

But that morning, when I opened my eyes, there was nothing. It was so quiet, the air felt heavy and it almost hurt my ears. I started to panic, afraid my mom and dad had left the house, leaving me alone. So I threw off the covers and ran into the hall, my heart pounding against my ribs, and burst into my parents' room.

When I saw my mom sleeping, her face half-hidden under the blankets, I started breathing again. I walked up to her really slowly so I didn't wake her up and stared at her like if I blinked, she would vanish. The skin around her eyes looked dark and her lips were dry, but she just looked like she was sleeping. The longer I stared, the better I felt until my heartbeat was back to normal.

It was when I reached up and patted her shoulder through the blanket that I heard it. I jerked my hand back and perked my ears up to make sure it was what I thought it was. It was. Someone was crying. When I went to investigate, I pushed open the door to my parents' bathroom and found my dad sitting on the toilet with his elbows propped on his knees and his head bowed, his big shoulders shaking as he cried softly.

I felt suddenly scared and when I said, "Daddy?" and he snapped his head up, the look on his face made me start to cry, too.

"Josh," he said, wiping at his eyes with one hand as he sat up. "Um, hey, buddy."

"What's the matter?" I asked him.

He looked at me then and opened his mouth to speak and looking back, I think he was going to lie to me. But then he seemed to decide against it. "Son," he said softly. "Come here."

I walked over and stood in front of him and looked into his face. His eyes were red and shining and he sniffled before he spoke again.

"Josh," he said. "Your mom…" He looked away, down, then back up at me. "She's sick."

Sick. Even then, even at seven years old, I knew. I knew it was bad.

"Is she gonna get better?" I asked.

My dad tried to smile, but couldn't. He reached up and cupped my cheek with his big hand, then slid his hand back until it wrapped around the back of my neck. "I hope so," he whispered. "I really hope so."

When he looked down again, I looked down, too. Gripped in his hand was my mom's hairbrush. Tangled in the hairbrush was a huge clump of long, dark brown hair. And for reasons I didn't understand then, the sight of it frightened me.

* * *

_Please review. Thank you!_


	5. Just Josh 5

**Title:** Just Josh  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Rating:** K to T (G to R)  
**Warnings:** implied to mild slash, angst, bad words  
**Disclaimer:**

**A/N:** Finally, an update! Yay!

* * *

**If you could be in the Olympics (summer or winter), what event/sport would you want to do most? Why?**

Two words: doubles luge.

Have you ever watched it? Probably not. It's one of those sports that's only on in the middle of the night during the second week of the winter Olympics, sandwiched between previously recorded cross-country skiing and women's short track speed skating.

Anyway, Drake and I were sitting on the couch in our room, each trying to hold an entire two-liter of Mountain Fizz at bay. See, Drake and I had a bet going about who could hold out from peeing the longest and I was determined to win. Of course, I had to go so bad, I could barely move, and Drake wasn't helping by constantly shaking what soda was left in his bottle.

At any rate, I had the remote control (mostly because I think Drake was afraid that if he lunged for it, he'd wet himself) and was flipping through the channels. There was a show about salmon on the nature channel, but the tiny whimper that Drake emitted at the sound of all that flowing water matched the one that I swallowed down and I decided to take pity on both of us and change it to something else. Eventually I got through all the channels and started back at the beginning, flipping aimlessly through the networks.

That's when we saw it.

It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen: two men wearing skin-tight body suits lying one on top of the other on a tiny little sled, zooming over an ice covered track. One moved his feet, one moved his head, and they flew around the curves in a flash of multi-colored Lycra and aerodynamic space helmets.

I couldn't take my eyes off it. I mean, remove the outfits and it would be illegal in at least twelve states.

"Dude," Drake said beside me and I knew he was staring at the screen, too.

"Yeah," I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Do you…" he said. "Do you think…?"

I flicked my eyes at him, the glow of the television accentuating the planes and angles of his face. "What?"

He turned his eyes to mine, holding my gaze for a moment before turning his eyes back to the screen. I returned my gaze to the screen as well, watching intently as the next pair of competitors carefully arranged themselves on their sled.

"I'd like it better on top," Drake said after a moment.

I almost swallowed my tongue. "Um," I stuttered. "What?" I looked over at him, eyes wide.

"Well, yeah," he said, his dark eyes fixed on the TV. "I mean, look at 'em." He motioned to the screen, his shoulder bumping mine and I felt myself swallow involuntarily. "The guy on the bottom's getting his junk squished. And what if he has to pee? That would totally suck."

I coughed a little and shifted on the couch, my knee brushing Drake's as I resolutely did not look at him.

"Besides, you're taller than me. If you were on top, I'd suffocate," Drake said, nudging me with his elbow.

My bladder was bursting at this point and I told myself that was the reason why I suddenly pressed my knees together and dug my fingers into the worn arm of the couch.

"Black," Drake said. "Black with, like, blue stripes."

"Huh?" was all I could manage.

"The suits, man. I mean, they're tights, which sucks. But if they were _manly_ tights, I guess it would be alright."

I closed my eyes, trying to drown out his voice, but all I saw was a virtual IMAX view of Drake and I in black body suits, zooming down an icy track, his butt pressed against my groin.

"You win," I whispered hoarsely, pushing myself up from the couch. "I-I really gotta go." As I hurried from the bedroom, I could've sworn I heard Drake laugh.

* * *

**Write about a mess you've cleaned up.**

I live with Drake Parker. If you know him, then you know I don't have to explain any further. If you don't, let me elaborate.

Drake Parker repels neatness. Oh, he's clean, in a $25-a-bottle shampoo sort of way. But he's not neat. His ability to create chaos in his immediate environment is almost like a super power.

Take, for instance, our room. My side? Spotless. Every shoe is paired with its mate, every piece of clothing is either hung up, folded neatly in a drawer, or in the laundry basket, the corners on my sheets are hospital worthy, and you could bounce a quarter off my blanket.

Drake's side? Amazingly disorganized, like a perfect demonstration of entropy in nature. Except Drake doesn't know what entropy is. He lives it, yes, but he doesn't know what it is. Because even if he was taking Physics (which he's not), I'm sure he would've lost the book by now in the swirling vortex of clutter where his bed is. It's kinda like the Bermuda Triangle, only instead of stuff vanishing, it endlessly accumulates.

And now it's spreading like a virus, creeping outward slowly but surely beyond the boundaries of our room.

This morning I found Drake's socks in the sink.

* * *

**Awesome.**

This is one of those words whose effectiveness depends entirely on its user. For instance, if I say, "Chemistry is awesome," I usually get a chorus of groans and synchronized eye rolling. If I say, "Oprah is awesome" or "Baking is awesome" or "Photon cannons are awesome," I usually get more of the same. Especially if I happen to be talking to anyone who's not Eric Blonnowitz, Craig Ramirez, or Mindy Crenshaw.

Drake, on the other hand, could say, "Leprosy is awesome," and everyone would run out and try to catch it as soon as possible. He could say, "I am awesome" or "Girls are awesome" or "Candy is awesome" and people would listen with rapt attention like he was the pope on Easter.

Being Drake Parker is awesome, what with the cool hair and the guitar playing and the endless string of pretty girls dying to kiss him. But so is being Josh Nichols. Sure, I'm klutzy and awkward and get tongue-tied easily. But I'm also caring and smart and a really good friend.

Not to mention, I'm Drake Parker's stepbrother.

And that's awesome.

* * *

**What do you hope for?**

To be valedictorian. A lifetime supply of cheese. The opportunity to see The Hailstones without getting handcuffed. To beat Mindy Crenshaw in the science fair just once before I die. To learn the secret source of Megan's evil. To have Helen remember my name. World peace. To meet Oprah. A full scholarship to Yale, Harvard, and Stanford. To patent my Fudgie Boos recipe and become a millionaire before I turn eighteen. To stop dreaming I'm a giant shrimp at a cocktail sauce party. My own car. To learn how to speak that African clicking language. Beating the computer at solitaire. Finishing a whole book of logic puzzles in ink without having to use whiteout. To read _War and Peace_ in the original Russian. A cure for cancer. Equal rights. An end to global warming. Having my dad be right about the weather for once. An endless supply of milk for Crazy Steve. A new haircut for Gavin. A tattoo in a very strategically chosen place.

That's about it, I guess.

Wait. I almost forgot. There is one more thing.

I hope someday to have the courage to tell Drake I'm in love with him.

* * *

_I know, these are pretty short. But I haven't had a lot of time to devote to these prompts. I hope you enjoyed them anyway. Please let me know what you think!_


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